


Don't Be Dead

by JayEz



Series: Don't Be Dead [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, F/M, Jealous!Sherlock, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cockblocking!Sherlock, oblivious!John, resurrecting Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John tries to deal. It takes him a while to figure out that Sherlock is still alive. Though once he is certain, he sets out to clear his best friend’s name and bring him back. </p><p>Eventually Johnlock, but not after a great deal of UST, pining, obliviousness, scheming and - in part II - a kidnapping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Small Things

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Reichenbach getting-them-together fic, betaed by my dear [ merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver). Thank you for your support and your criticism, I couldn't do any of this without you!
> 
> A further thanks to chris the gardener and Bonfoi for pointing out some typos and other mistakes!
> 
> The movie mentioned in chapter 1 is “The Prestige”, a choice that was inspired by this video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mee1qj6NqbY
> 
> My theory as to how Sherlock survived has been inspired by this youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0Hu2BSHiAg
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated :)

It was the small things.

The second mug John would unconsciously pull out of the cupboard when brewing tea. 

The second plate he’d set on the table before reality caught up with him. 

Constant reminders. 

The soothing melodies of the violin that didn’t fill the flat.

The fridge that contained nothing but real food if John actually went out to buy it. 

John tried hard to accept his new reality. He had moved back in to the flat because of it. But his subconscious wouldn’t let him. 

“Need anything from Tesco?” he’d call out and no one would answer him. Not even the skull. It had only talked to Sherlock. 

*

He had trouble sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d re-play the fall over and over in his head. Had he missed something? 

So much blood. 

His leg started hurting. His hand started trembling. 

John would have loved to drink himself into oblivion. Or even only drink enough to let him fall into a dreamless sleep. 

But drinking alone wasn’t an option. His sister was screwed up enough for the both of them. And what would Sherlock say?

So John took Greg’s offer and went for a pint with him. 

They talked about trivial things. Neither of them mentioned Sherlock or that they both knew Sherlock was no fraud.

At other times, John read. Watched TV. A month after Sherlock’s death, John had finished quite a few volumes that lined the walls of the flat. 

Mrs Hudson was trying to be helpful. She offered to clean, to cook. John turned her down with a smile. “You’re not my housekeeper.”

In the second week, John received an e-mail from Mycroft. He spent the next fifteen minutes staring at the screen, trying to get his rage under control. He almost didn’t open it. 

It was brief. 

_“Stay in the flat. Don’t worry about the rent. It’s the least I can do.”_

John slammed the laptop shut.

* 

Gradually, he stopped pulling out two mugs or two plates. He stopped asking people who weren’t there if he could bring them anything from Tesco. 

By the fourth week after Sherlock’s death, John started falling asleep on the sofa in front of the TV. He still had dreams, nightmares, but they were becoming less frequent. 

*

John woke with a start, his body covered in sweat. It took a while until he was breathing evenly again.

The TV was still on. A brief glance showed Christian Bale on screen. 

John sank back into the sofa while the movie continued.

“Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts.” John leapt off the bed. Magic trick. That’s what Sherlock had said. 

“The first part is called the Pledge.” Michal Caine’s voice, John’s mind supplied. John forced himself to relax. Just a word, John. 

“The magician shows you something ordinary. The second act is called the Turn. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it into something extraordinary. But you wouldn’t clap yet. Because making something disappear isn’t enough.”

Slowly, John raised his head. “You have to bring it back.”

_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead._

John was blinking frantically, looking for the remote and sliding off the sofa in the process. He had to turn off the TV.

The voice-over continued. “Now you’re looking for the secret. But you won’t find it because you’re not really looking.” John froze on his knees between the sofa and the coffee table. “You don’t really want to work it out. You want to be fooled.”

John was back on the street in front of Bart’s. Sherlock’s voice was ringing in his ears, mere memories but still so real. 

_“Just do as I ask. Please!”_

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me.”_

_“It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”_

_“Nobody could be that clever.”_

“You could.” John said it out loud. A magic trick. He had spent hours trying to figure it out, to deduce the truth. John knew Sherlock wasn’t lying, that Moriarty wasn’t Richard Brooks, that the actor didn’t exist. 

A magic trick. Because making something disappear isn’t enough. You have to bring it back.  
But how? Sherlock must have given him the answer, a hint, a clue, anything, something. John had spent the first two weeks searching for it – to no avail. 

John had mentally replayed every conversation with Sherlock so many times that they mixed in his head, location, date, time blending into each other. 

A magic trick. 

_“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” – “No. Friends protect people.”_

_“I only have one friend.”_

_“I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson and Molly.”_

John wasn’t the only one anymore. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. 

Molly. 

John stood up suddenly, started pacing the flat. 

Molly. A pathologist. With a crush on Sherlock. She had helped them before. 

_“Look at me.”_

John had. Sherlock, lying there. He had taken his pulse and hadn’t felt any. Had spent half the night in front of the morgue, trying to comprehend. 

Until Molly had ushered him out.

“You need to rest, John. It’s been a long day.”

He had left – and she had had the perfect opportunity to switch Sherlock’s body. 

Molly. 

Molly, who had cried at Sherlock’s funeral. Who had been a picture of misery. Who had brought John food in the week after the funeral and had seemed composed. 

Molly. 

*

A few hours later, John was waiting in the lab. 

He had merely hesitated a second, had allowed his eyes to glance up at the roof briefly, before shaking it off and stepping inside the hospital. 

Molly startled when she saw him. He must have been quite an eerie sight in the dimly-lit lab.

“John. What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

John just looked at her, trying to see. But he had never been able to see, that had been Sherlock’s gift. 

“I know.”

Molly’s breath hitched. “W-what are you talking-“

“You know what I mean.”

“I-I don’t.”

John raised his eyebrows. Molly set her notepad down on the table and made for the next room. 

“A magic trick. That’s what Sherlock told me on the phone. While he was up there. Before he jumped.”

Molly flinched. 

“You helped him with the magic trick, didn’t you?”

Finally, the woman looked up. Her eyes weren’t frightened and confused. John saw the truth. 

“He’s not dead. That wasn’t his body in the coffin.” 

“He made me promise not to tell you.” Molly’s voice was nothing more than a whisper.

John bolted from the room, from the hospital. Six weeks. Six weeks she had known and never told him. She had seen how he grieved and hadn’t told him. 

*

John was pacing again. The feeling of relief had been short-lived – even though Sherlock was alive, he wasn’t coming back, he couldn’t. Lestrade would have to cuff him and send him to prison. 

John had to find a way around that or else he’d never see Sherlock again. Couldn’t ask him how come he was still alive. That fall should have killed him. 

The problem was that everyone believed Sherlock to be a fraud. 

John only saw one possible solution: Clear Sherlock’s name. 

*

Greg was reading a report when John entered his office. 

“Hey John, what can I do for you?”

“I need all files you have on Sherlock and Moriarty.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I need them.”

Greg stood. “Why? I can’t simply hand you police reports.”

“You can. Trust me.” 

John held Greg’s gaze and hoped he was able to communicate everything he wanted with his eyes. 

After a long moment in which John was almost sure the man would refuse, Greg’s eyes softened and the DI sighed.

“Alright. I’ll drop them off later.”

“Thank you. I owe you.”

“You bloody well do.”

*

The next eight weeks went by in a daze. When John wasn’t working, he was looking for leads, talking to people, using the homeless network, investigating, threatening sources. Breaking bones if necessary.

He was getting somewhere, piecing together the puzzle of tiny pieces of information.

Three sharp-shooters. Orders: Shoot if Sherlock doesn’t fall. 

Sherlock had died to safe his friends. To safe him. 

John had neither laughed nor cried, it had been half-sob, half-laughter when he had pieced together that particular part. 

_“Alone protects me.”_

Suddenly John knew what Sherlock had meant.

* 

In the fourteenth week after the fall, an envelope appeared on John’s doorstep. When John saw the photo he wasn’t any wiser but when he read the name, he pulled out his phone. 

“John, hello! Nice to hear from you, how-“

“Sorry, Harry, I can’t talk. I need to ask you a favour. Can I borrow your car?”

John had never thought for a second that Mycroft wasn’t watching him but the man had never intervened until now. 

John tracked down the sniper and had to use all his self-control not to kill the man on the spot. 

It took severe methods but in the end, the sniper agreed to a confession in exchange for witness protection. 

Greg wasn’t surprised. “I’m glad to see he’s still in one piece.” 

John shrugged but didn’t reply save for a small smile that Greg reciprocated.

* 

In the sixteenth week, the Met took down the remaining two snipers. 

The day after, Lestrade summoned all the vultures who had torn Sherlock’s public image to pieces and handed them their next scandal on a silver platter. 

The day after that, everyone in the United Kingdom knew that Sherlock Holmes was every bit as brilliant as he had seemed to be. 

And John was sitting in the flat, waiting.


	2. A Magic Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns.

The next 60 hours were torture. Every noise made John jump and every single time it was nothing. He didn’t dare go out, he hardly dared to step into the shower for fear he might miss the moment when Sherlock returned.

On the third day, when the afternoon’s TV schedule was threatening to drive him insane and his stomach told him in no uncertain terms that it needed something other than toast and tea, John eventually got up and left the flat. 

He returned an hour later with bags full of groceries. 

In retrospect he should have known. 

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the flat just like he had so often before, wearing a different coat and much shorter hair but he didn’t look out of place at all. 

He was staring at the mug on the coffee table and didn’t look up when John entered and nearly dropped his bags. 

After a second, John set them down in the kitchen.

It was only when he stepped into the living room and stayed put that Sherlock finally looked up to meet his eyes. 

Neither of them spoke. John didn’t trust his voice, he could feel the repressed anger of the past months rising up.

After what could have been seconds or minutes or even hours, Sherlock broke the silence. His expression was pained, his voice rough, near breaking-point.

“You figured it out.”

John let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding but remained silent. 

“And you cleared my name.”

John wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on whether to ask questions or rage at the man in front of him. He felt the tension, was sure that Sherlock could feel it, too. 

John saw a myriad of emotions flicker across Sherlock’s face during the silence.

“John, please. Say something.”

“What would you like me to say, Sherlock? Welcome back? Fancy a cuppa?” A sudden energy gripped him and he was moving, gesturing. “Like nothing happened? Like the past few months never happened? Or do you want me to applaud? Great magic trick, Sherlock. You’ve again shown the world and me just how clever you are!”

“I’m sorry.”

John stopped abruptly. “You’re sorry? Sorry? For what?” He was moving again, pacing, restlessly. “For arranging that call so that you could go off to face Moriarty instead of telling me? For jumping? For telling the lies? Or for not telling me what was really going on? I mean you had it all set up, the plan was in motion, Molly was in on it and somehow you turned it so you’d survive that fall. Are you sorry you didn’t tell me? Or are you sorry for not telling me you’re still alive after I BURIED you?!” Sherlock winced – John was screaming now, he noted belatedly. He tried to force the volume down without much success. “Or, perhaps, you’re sorry that you didn’t come here the second your name was cleared and you kept me waiting for three days? Three bloody days? What, Sherlock? What exactly are you sorry for?!”

He stopped a few steps in front of Sherlock who looked pale and pained and scared and lost and John almost deflated but didn’t. 

“For everything. John, I’m sorry for everything.” Barely a whisper. 

John crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Prove it. Explain.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I couldn’t tell you. It was too big a risk.”

“You jumped off St. Bart’s – what’s that then, a challenge?”

“John. I couldn’t risk the snipers seeing me with you. They’d have shot you still if they’d found out I was alive. That’s why you had to bury me. That’s why I didn’t contact you.”

“So what have you been up to, Sherlock? Enjoying death?” 

John only now recognized his reference and chuckled, too wired to suppress it. The humour was, of course, lost on Sherlock. 

“No. I was searching for Moriarty’s minions.”

“And how – wait, don’t tell me. Mycroft. Mycroft knew?!”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the ground and he nodded almost imperceptibly. 

“Seriously, Sherlock? Why could he know and I couldn’t? I thought I meant something to you.”

Sherlock’s looked up sharply and the sincerity in his eyes hit John like a bullet. “You mean everything to me.” 

“Then why didn’t you tell me? Or give me a hint? Was it too big a risk?”

For a long moment, Sherlock didn’t reply but considered the tiles on the floor. 

“I knew that if I told you, I wouldn’t be able to stay away. And what then, John? Someone would have found me and they’d come after me and you, for that matter.” Sherlock’s look was constricted. “I couldn’t take that risk. And I’m sorry for what I put you through.”

Silence fell once more. Sherlock’s arguments made perfect sense, John had been sure they would. But the hurt was still burning inside his chest, reason had no effect on it. 

“I found the sniper”, Sherlock spoke again. “I passed the information on to Mycroft. I knew you were trying to clear my name.”

“So you’ve been spying on me?” It took all John’s energy to keep from shouting. 

Sherlock winced, closed his eyes. He let out a shallow breath and had to blink several times until he finally met John’s stare. “I wouldn’t have survived otherwise.” 

John had never seen Sherlock look so raw, so vulnerable, so human. Sherlock had dropped every mask and every pretence and John saw how difficult the past months had been on the man before him. 

John was still angry, still feeling betrayed and hurt but with Sherlock looking like he was about to break down, John simply couldn’t go on. 

They weren’t done talking but at least now, they had time. They were reunited again. 

It must have shown on his face for Sherlock’s expression changed gradually and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“So what about that cuppa?” he asked, voice still shaking from unshed tears but lighter than anything he’d said up to now.

John couldn’t help it – he started laughing and didn’t stop long after Sherlock had joined in. 

*

They drank the tea in silence at first, John pushing the nagging thoughts about what everyone would say when word got out that Sherlock was back out of his mind while the man in question was trying hard to relax. 

“I’m not sure I like the new haircut, though”, John remarked after refilling their cups. 

For a split second, Sherlock looked confused. “Oh, it’s not precisely a cut. Had to shave it. Too conspicuous. It’ll grow back in no time.”

John nodded. He had figured that much. 

“So will you address the big elephant in the room or should I do the honours?” Sherlock prompted and went on when John merely raised an eyebrow. 

“We have to resurrect me.” 

“I feared as much.”

“What do you have to fear? You’re the one who knows social protocol when it comes to dealing with public appearances a great deal better than I do.”

“You mean the protocol that says you should be nice?”

“Pretending you care is more like it.”

John chuckled. “I’m glad to see that death hasn’t changed you.”

“Why should death change me? Especially when I didn’t die?” Sherlock looked genuinely confused. 

“Never mind.” John went back to the kitchen and prepared another kettle. 

“Do we tell Mrs Hudson today or tomorrow?”

“Do I have to be there?”

“What?”

“There will be crying and questions and frankly, I don’t like the prospect of dealing with either.”

John gave an exasperated sigh. “You dug your own grave – well, you literally dug your own grave-” Sherlock narrowed his eyes – “okay, you semi-literally dug your own grave. You have to face the consequences. You had to face me, too.”

“But with you I could be sure there’d be no crying. Your pride would never allow it.”

John almost objected. He thought of all the times he had visited Sherlock’s grave and cried, of all the nights in the flat that the slightest memory had triggered him. 

John went to retrieve the pot, speaking while he did so. “It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. We’ll tell her today as soon as she’s back. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Greg to come meet me here. Then we can explain and he can help us figure out how to deal with your resurrection.” 

John set the kettle onto the table. “Is it just me or does this story seem like something in the Bible? You even waited three days until you came back here.”

Sherlock snorted. “If you’re comparing me to Jesus Christ, don’t, it doesn’t flatter me. Besides, he came back three days after he died, in my case the number of days is considerably larger.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to flatter you. But the analogy is bound to pop up in the papers.”  
Sherlock groaned in agony. “Yes, Sherlock, you will have to deal with the papers.”

“Is it too soon to joke about rather wanting to die?”

They looked at each other until neither could contain their laughter. 

They sobered up soon enough and John decided he had to finally ask the big question. 

“Sherlock. I need to know… How did you survive that fall? And what happened on that roof?”

“I knew you’d ask that. What do you think? I’m sure you have theories.”

“I do. But I won’t indulge you, Sherlock. I won’t try to solve the puzzle, I’m not playing today.”

Sherlock sensed that John wouldn’t take no for an answer and sighed, setting his cup down. 

“Do you remember when I left you before we met in the lab? That was the moment that I realized there was only one way Moriarty wanted to end my story. Suicide. I left you to set a plan in motion… Well, you already know about Molly.” Sherlock paused, phrasing his explanation. 

“I arranged for a truck to park in front of the hospital that would obstruct your view. It was the clothing collection. There was a homeless woman on the bench with three more bags of soft clothing and she would place them on the truck to signal the driver he could take off. It went smoothly. The woman also supplied me with the blood.” 

John was beginning to grasp what Sherlock was explaining but it was all too incredible. 

“Now the only problem was you. I had placed you at a distance on purpose. You’d have still been too fast so another member of the homeless network ran you over with his bike. You fell and when you looked up you saw me, lying on the ground and a lot of blood.”

“But you had no pulse!”

“A magic trick.” At that, Sherlock actually smiled. “Houdini mentioned that, by placing a rubber ball under your arm pit, you can slow the pulse in your wrist as to mimic death.”

John stared. 

“The rest was simple. I was DOA and Molly switched corpses. I shaved my head and went into hiding. A few bruises but other than that I was fine.”

John did comprehend the magnitude of Sherlock’s ploy, though he didn’t feel the same awe that had usually taken hold of him when Sherlock had expanded on a solution of his. Even he could see the flaws in the plan and it made the anger rise up in his throat again. 

“Well done, Sherlock. But you do know that there’s so much that could have gone wrong? You could have landed on the pavement, the truck could have been delayed-“

“Yes, John, I’m aware of that.”

“Then why-“

“-did I go through with it? Why didn’t I come up with a better plan?” For the first time, Sherlock raised his voice. “There was no better plan! That was it, my one choice!” Sherlock took a steadying breath. 

“No, that’s not true. I had another way. Moriarty let slip that the snipers could be called off and I tried to make a deal. I’d take the fall, he’d have the pleasure of seeing me publicly burn and my friends would stay alive. But Moriarty ensured that wasn’t a possible solution. He shot himself to take every option from me but to jump.”

John took the information in and tried to picture Sherlock on that rooftop, alone, his last chance at surviving the scenario taken from him. 

“So you weren’t acting, then. When you left the note.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to jump. But I had no choice. And that meant saying good-bye to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's reaction is something I spent much time contemplating. On the one hand, he's surely thrilled to have Sherlock back, on the other hand he will be incredibly angry with his best friend for what he did. 
> 
> I hope I held the middle ground convincingly...


	3. Facing The Vultures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock attend the obligatory press conference, including one annoying Kitty Riley.  
> And Sherlock needs someone to tend to his wounds...

Telling Mrs Hudson had gone as planned. John had found it rather entertaining to see Sherlock squirm in the lady’s embrace and suffer through her tears. 

After that, John had ushered Sherlock into the shower and into bed. All his things were still in place, even though Sherlock’s equipment had been packed into boxes. But John hadn’t been able to sort through the clothes and belongings. He hadn’t even removed the second tooth brush. 

Sherlock did, though, after a moment of realization. 

“Throw that away, it’s unhygienic. I hope you have a spare one”, Sherlock had said and rummaged through the cabinets. 

For the first time in months, John managed eight hours of solid, nightmare-free sleep. 

He was up before Sherlock and decided to cook breakfast. He set the table for two and almost removed the second plate before his heart rate accelerated and he realized he didn’t have to. 

Just as the bacon was finished, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen. 

“I smelled bacon.”

John looked up from the frying pan. “Don’t tell me I don’t have to force-feed you?”

“When did you ever force-feed me?”

“You know what I mean.” John shook his head in amusement, filled the plates and sat down. 

It was almost like old times but at the same time completely different. John still felt residual anger - it would take time until he could fully forgive Sherlock and Sherlock probably sensed it. Or observed. 

Later, John made sure to be the one to open the front door for Greg. Mrs Hudson would surely say something and John didn’t want Greg to hear the news from anyone but him and Sherlock. 

He led the DI upstairs and held the door open.

“John, what’s going on, what’s the emergency about-“ Greg stopped dead and paled. He was staring at Sherlock as though he was seeing a ghost, which technically he was, John mused. 

“You’re not dead?”

“I assure you, Detective Inspector, I am very much alive.”

“But- we buried you.”

“A magic trick. Ask John to explain it all over a pint or something similar.”

“Oh no, Sherlock, you will do the talking. Now.”

Greg had caught himself fast, not that John had expected any differently. So Sherlock, obviously uncomfortable, explained as briefly as he could how he came to be still breathing. 

At some point, the DI had had to sit down. 

“Sherlock, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Thank you.” The man looked genuinely surprised, John noted.

“But do you have any idea what kind of hell will rain down on us now? You can’t simply go back to consulting and deducing… We need to tell people or there will be heart attacks when you start walking about London.”

“What do you suggest?” John asked. “Press conference?”

“Seems like the most sensible solution. I’ll have to tell the Superintendent first.” Greg rose, briefly covering his face with his hands like that was a conversation he could live without. He sighed heavily before he spoke again. “We’ll develop a battle plan. And you’ll go along with it, Holmes, if you ever want to solve murders again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lestrade, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear. You can go now.”

John saw Greg to the door. The DI turned to him with a worried look in his eyes. 

“How are you holding up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, John, you practically died with him. Now that he’s back – that can’t be easy.”

John drew a long breath and let it out slowly, biding time. 

“I don’t know, Greg. At the moment, I’m just glad he’s back. But…” John swallowed, “the next couple of weeks will be hard. I don’t know whether Sherlock’s still the same. He seems okay.” John rubbed his eyes. “I’m worrying too much. First, we’ll have to survive the press conference.”

At that, Greg growled. “Don’t remind me. You’re not the one who has to tell the Superintendent that Sherlock Holmes not only was innocent after all, but that he is alive as well and ready for new cases….”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thank you. Text me if you need anything, alright?”

John nodded and waved the DI off. 

When John returned upstairs he couldn’t believe his ears. Violin music. Sherlock was standing at the window and playing – what exactly, John couldn’t say, he knew next to nothing about classical music, but it sounded hopeful. 

The image broke when Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and brought a hand up to his ribs. 

John was at his side immediately. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing severe. Don’t worry.”

“I’m the doctor here, Sherlock, I’ll decide whether it’s something severe or not.”

Normally, Sherlock would have argued but the status quo wasn’t set on “normal” anymore. 

“Put the violin down and remove your shirt, I’ll get my kit.”

Sherlock complied and when John re-entered the living room a horrible sight struck him. 

He saw bruises, a lot of them. Mostly healed but some were almost fresh. 

“Infiltrating Moriarty’s network wasn’t a smooth ride, as they say”, Sherlock provided as an explanation. 

John didn’t say anything but moved to the window, set his kit down and started inspecting the damage. 

Three bruises were extremely bad and two of Sherlock’s ribs were cracked but thankfully not broken. 

“I’ll apply some salve to the worst bruises and bandage them. It might hurt a bit.”

Usually, Sherlock would make a fuss, claiming he could assess the damage better or that he’d patch himself up but then again, things weren’t normal. 

So John retrieved the salve and started on Sherlock’s shoulder, then moved on to his chest and finally dropped to his knees at Sherlock’s side to gain better access to the bruise on his lower right flank. 

It occurred to John that, should anyone chose that moment to walk in, the position could be considered compromising and he looked up at Sherlock’s face to joke about it but stopped when he saw the pained expression.

“I’m almost done, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Sherlock looked down and suddenly, goose-bumps appeared where John was applying the salve. “It’s cold”, he heard a defensive voice from above.

“Just one moment.”

When he was done, John applied the bandages and became more and more fascinated with the goose-bumps that still hadn’t disappeared.

“All patched up, as they say.” John stood up and found himself suddenly very much in Sherlock’s personal space. 

John forgot what he had wanted to say for a second. Sherlock just looked at him, expression unreadable. 

“I’ll have to change the bandages tomorrow. Then we’ll see how the bruises heal”, John finished lamely and took a step back to clean up the mess of bandage wrappings. 

“Thank you”, he heard Sherlock say before the man fled to his room. 

Weird. But not his concern at the moment, John decided as he put the wrappings into the bin. 

* 

Greg called later that day to tell them the conference had been set for 10 am the next day. All the press had been told was that the Yard had important news. 

“My boss wasn’t thrilled,” Greg added and John could tell it was the understatement of the year. After all, the DI had almost lost his job over the Richard Brook incident, everyone had questioned his judgment and in the end, they had put Greg on probation. Adding to the chaos, his wife had chosen that period of Greg’s life to finally leave him.

“But he has no choice but to welcome Sherlock back. He really is a genius and not a fraud. And we need him.”

“Good that he sees it that way.”

“At least my job is secure this time…. Anyway. I’ll fill the press in and then you’ll join us on the podium to answer any questions.”

“Sherlock will love that idea.”

“I don’t care. He’ll have to suck it up.”

“I’ll be glad to tell him that.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow, then?”

“Thank you, Greg.”

“You’re welcome.”

* 

John told Sherlock when the latter finally came out of his room in the evening. 

As suspected, Sherlock was nowhere near happy about having to answer questions but a look from John that clearly said “It’s either this or you have to find your own cases in the future” silenced Sherlock. 

John used the silence to start on dinner, which he’d make sure Sherlock would eat. The months on the run hadn’t made him look any healthier. His cheekbones were even more pronounced for that matter. 

“I’ll have to change the bandages before you go to bed.”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “It’s okay. I feel fine.”

“I don’t care. I need to see for myself.”

Need to see you’re okay, he almost added, but it must have shown on his face, for Sherlock’s eyes softened. 

“If you insist.”

So John found himself kneeling next to Sherlock again, carefully removing the band aid and re-applying the salve, his fingers brushing over Sherlock’s skin as lightly as possible so as to not cause any pain. 

“I’m sorry, it’s still cold,” John said as he noticed the goose-bumps all over Sherlock’s torso. 

“It’s fine. I will survive”, Sherlock drawled and John couldn’t help the chuckle.

“Yeah, you’ve had worse.”

“I’m not so sure about tomorrow, though.”

“Sherlock, they’re just journalists, not trained assassins.”

“How can you be sure?”

John shook his head, put on the last band aid and rose to his feet. 

“You’re not getting out of this, Sherlock. You owe it to Lestrade.”

“Why? Because his wife left him because he almost lost his job?”

“How did you- never mind. Yes. Greg had to suffer a lot in the past months. Let’s not make it worse, okay?”

It almost looked like Sherlock was pouting but he sighed heavily and nodded nonetheless. 

“Good night, Sherlock”, John said and left the man standing by the window, lean body covered in bruises, bandages and moon light. 

* 

John couldn’t decide what he was looking forward to most: Donovan’s face when she had to admit Sherlock was innocent all along or the reporters when Greg told them the Reichenbach hero wasn’t dead after all. 

None of the above, probably. What he really hoped was that, after everyone had gotten over the initial shock and the scandal had blown over, Sherlock and he could finally get back to normal. 

He doubted it would be so easy, but who knew, denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt. 

There were moments when the two of them bickered like before, when John could almost fool himself that he wasn’t still angry at Sherlock for leaving him. Then one of them would say something that triggered associations and memories and both knew immediately that it had been the wrong thing to say. 

Staying silent for a while helped so they spent the rest of the cab ride to the police station without speaking.

It was 9.46 am when they pulled up at a side entrance and Greg met them. 

“Just a friendly warning, guys”, he said as a way of greeting, “your resurrection is top secret, so no one except Superintendent Rowley and I know about it. Everyone suspects something is up, but that won’t prepare them for seeing you now.”

Greg gestured them into the building and they followed the DI down a long hallway. He paused in front of a door. 

“Ready?”

John nodded. 

“That is a redundant question, Lestrade. Even if we weren’t ready it wouldn’t change the situation. Go on and open the door.”

Greg and John exchanged an annoyed glance but the inspector did as he was told. 

John did a quick sweep of the room – it was the office adjoining the press conference room they knew from previous conferences. It was almost empty; the only people in it were Sergeant Donovan and Anderson. 

“Hello”, John said into the stunned silence. 

He watched the two officers look back and forth between their supervisor and Sherlock, confusion clearly visible in their faces. 

“Yes, I’m alive. You can both stop your appalling impressions of fish now.” 

That he actually spoke seemed to shake them out of their reverie. 

“You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” Donovan asked, her look directed at Greg. 

“Sergeant, I was as surprised as you were.” 

“But how? That fall would have killed anyone.”

“Well, Anderson, I’m not anyone. By now one would think that information had reached your brain.”

“Oh, and he’s insulting us again! Next thing you’ll tell us is that he’ll be solving cases again!”

Anderson turned to the DI, clearly hoping to be reassured. When Greg did nothing but shrug, the forensic wasn’t pleased. “You must be joking, sir!” 

John tensed. He didn’t take Anderson for someone who’d throw a punch but you never knew. He hadn’t taken Sherlock for the person to jump off a building either. 

“Anderson, stop that”, a voice came from the door. “And Mr Watson, at ease. I will have you arrested again if you decide to punch another member of the Met.”

It was Superintendent Mike Rowley. John cleared his throat and relaxed his muscles. Next to him, Sherlock seemed unimpressed. 

“Sir-“

“Anderson, Mr Holmes will be consulting in the future. If you have a problem with that, you can file a complaint.”

That brought the forensic up short and all that was left for him to do was glare at Sherlock. 

Rowley, meanwhile, also turned towards the consulting detective. 

“Mr Holmes-“

“Please spare us both the social niceties. It isn’t necessary.”

Rowley looked insulted for a moment but focused his attention on Greg instead. 

“Very well. It’s time, Lestrade.” 

Greg nodded and turned on the TV before he looked at John. “Don’t let anyone get hurt, alright?”

“I’ll do my best”, he replied. 

Sherlock’s attention was already focused on the screen. They had a full house; every single one of the chairs in the conference room was filled, some reporters were even standing amongst the camera teams. 

Rowley and Greg took the two seats on the left. 

Out of the corner of his eyes John saw Donovan move uncomfortably. 

“Donovan, stop fidgeting.” Sherlock had noticed it too. “It’s distracting.”

“I’m not-“

“Yes, you are. You’re trying to decide whether to apologize to me for accusing me of committing all those crimes or if you should leave it. So let me chose an option for you. Don’t apologize. We both know you won’t mean it, it will be an empty gesture. After all, you merely played the part that Moriarty wanted you to.”

Sherlock’s eyes had never left the screen during his monologue and it had the intended effect – Donovan stopped fidgeting and trained her eyes on the screen. 

*

Sherlock could sense John shift next to him as he turned towards the screen. 

Rowley was addressing the crowd and Sherlock would have been lying if he pretended he wasn’t at least a bit pleased about the awed reaction the news of his return received. 

As expected, the explanation Lestrade provided the journalists with was an incredibly dull version of the past few months, of course void of any explanation as to how Sherlock had survived the fall. 

Obviously, Lestrade would leave that up to him. 

“Come on, we’re up”, Sherlock heard John say and made his way through the door and onto the podium. 

“Be nice, okay?” John’s look was stern and Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. 

“I’ll try.”

The explosion of flashes and clicks was hard to ignore, yet he eventually found his seat next to Lestrade while John took the chair on his left. 

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions and Mr Holmes has agreed to answer a few of them”, Lestrade opened the conversation. 

Agreed, of course. Forced him to was more like what had happened.

Sherlock scanned the room. He recognized several reporters. Four left-handed, one part-time math teacher, two lesbians, one sports journalist who was apparently covering for a colleague, three had spent the night before watching porn and approximately thirteen owned pets – twelve and a half if you didn’t give a Chihuahua full credit for being a dog. 

“Alright, let’s hear the first question”, the DI continued when he realized Sherlock was not going to address the audience on his own accord. 

No matter how often John nudged him. 

“Mr Holmes, first of all, welcome back! I’m sure a lot of people will feel safer with you there to protect London.” 

Another nudge. Alright!

“Thank you.”

The brunette beamed. 

“My question is probably the one everyone wants to ask: How did you fake your death?”

He knew it wouldn’t be any use trying to avoid the issue, so Sherlock reeled his answer off at high speed. They seemed appropriately awed.

“What were you doing between then and now?”

“I was attempting to infiltrate Moriarty’s network as to prove my innocence of the crimes he pinned on me.”

“My question is for Dr Watson”, one of the pregnant women said and on the chair next to him, John tensed up immediately. 

“Yes?”

“Did you know Mr Holmes had survived?”

John swallowed. “No. Apparently Moriarty had set snipers on a few people close to Sherlock who would shoot should he not jump. Should they find out he’d survived they would probably have finished their job. So no, I didn’t know.”

“Did you have suspicions that he might still be alive?” It was one of the men who were cheating on their wives who had asked. Sherlock had seen him before at conferences. The cheating was new. 

“I… I did. Or at least, I hoped.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Dr Watson, were you the informant that provided the evidence that cleared Mr Holmes’ name?”

Silence fell on the room. John exchanged glances with Lestrade, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

When John refused to go on, Lestrade called the next question. 

“Mr Holmes”, a cat-owner began, “were you aware of Dr Watson’s endeavours?”

“I got wind of it”, he replied elusively. “And in answer to your next question: Yes, I discovered information that would be of help to him and I provided Dr Watson with said information, however without revealing my identity or my whereabouts. And I think that is enough about the past few months.”

Several hands dropped. Of those that remained airborne, Lestrade called a young, aspiring journalist. 

“What is going to happen now? Will you be re-instated as consulting detective?” 

With a look, Sherlock passed the question on to Lestrade. 

“Yes, Scotland Yard will continue its cooperation with Mr Holmes.” 

“How do we know that death hasn’t made you go soft?” a female voice called from the back of the room. 

Sherlock recognized the voice and his eyes found Kitty Riley, smirking. She was looking a bit ragged, had lost her job at the newspaper after her story had been disproven, Sherlock noted with grim satisfaction. 

“I assure you we have-“ Lestrade began but Sherlock cut him off. 

“Please, let me.” 

He inhaled a long breath in the silent room and jumped from reporter to reporter. “Three recent divorcees, one young mother, another two pregnant, one man is trying very hard to keep a plant alive, apparently as part of a step-program after rehab, my guess is pain killers, one woman is lying about having quit smoking, seven affairs, one of which with a member of the same gender, another one with an employee of a competing newspaper, you can both stop trying, the other is not giving away any secrets,” Sherlock paused for a split second, “twelve and a half pets, four cats, one rat, seven dogs and one Chihuahua. Miss Riley herself had cookies for breakfast, apparently left-overs from last night which she spent writing applications as a freelance journalist because she has been fired due to the fact that she fell for Moriarty’s lies.” 

Sherlock smirked at Riley’s flabbergasted expression and his eyes flicked over to John who was trying rather hard to hide his smile. 

“Brilliant”, he said under his breath and for the first time since yesterday, Sherlock felt like the real Sherlock Holmes again.


	4. The Gynaecologist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to keep his feelings in check while they're back to solving cases. Meanwhile, John meets a woman called Mary and agrees to go out with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No worries, please - John and Mary? Sherlock would never let that happen! He has some major cockblocking powers :)
> 
> Also, my original plan of posting one chapter a day failed miserably. I myself am rather impatient when it comes to WIPs, so I decided to speed things up a bit, especially since part II is already with my beta.

That evening, Sherlock took it upon himself to unpack his lab equipment while he could hear John typing on his laptop. 

The blog, Sherlock reasoned. 

They had decided to stay in for dinner, or rather John had decided he’d cook since every single one of the reporters that inhabited the city of London was presently camping out on Baker Street. 

Sherlock kept his thoughts focused on the contents of the boxes, restoring the flat to its usual order (if one could call it order at all), contemplating whether it was time for a new microscope or another addition to his equipment. 

It wasn’t easy. 

It was times like these that Sherlock almost loathed his heightened mental abilities since his brain was capable of thinking about a lot of different things at once without any problems. 

Especially when he tried to concern it with trivial things such as gadget shopping. 

So there were flashes, memories, of nights spent alone in abandoned houses or hidden under bridges, of nights without dinner – not that the lack of food had bothered him. But the knowledge that in 221B Baker Street, John was probably cooking dinner and couldn’t force Sherlock to eat anything had been the origin of some rather unpleasant feelings. 

_John is here now, I’m back in Baker Street,_ Sherlock told himself. Surely his mind would see the logic and cease its repetition of long lost moments in the cold. 

The task at hand finished, Sherlock returned to the living room and found John on the sofa. 

“The web is thrilled that you’re back”, John mused and tilted the laptop screen in Sherlock’s direction. 

Several windows were showing articles, all sporting the same photos – him next to John at the conference, both of them making their way from the cab to their front door through a collection of London’s finest journalists who thought they could force themselves on them in the street.

It was every bit as tedious as Sherlock had expected. 

He made a non-committal sound and headed for his room but John’s voice stopped him. 

“Wait, I’ll have to change the bandages first.”

Sherlock froze and turned. “I assure you, it’s fine.”

“No, Sherlock, I’m the doctor here, I get to decide what’s fine when it comes to your physical well-being.”

Sherlock considered arguing or simply taking the remaining steps to his room. Inexplicably, his body betrayed him and Sherlock found himself walking back to the sofa. 

“One last time, Sherlock, honestly. The bruises looked much better this morning, one more treatment with the salve and they’ll be able to heal off properly on their own.”

Sherlock nodded and opened the buttons of his shirt. John was at his side in moments, gently peeling off the bandages, ever so considerate to avoid his ribs. 

“This looks a lot better”, John commented on the bruise beneath Sherlock’s left clavicle. 

With the bandages gone, John applied the salve. The brush of his hand was warm against Sherlock’s skin and he felt his body straining to lean into the touch. 

It took all his energy to control himself and let John finish the treatment without interfering. 

The doctor slid to his knees to access the last injury and Sherlock couldn’t contain a gasp when John’s hand was inches above his hip bone. 

John looked up. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

Sherlock didn’t trust his voice so he nodded as dismissively as possible. 

When he lay down on his bed ten minutes later, freshly bandaged and fully clothed, he finally let out the sigh he had been holding. 

He had wanted everything to go back to normal. He had known the chances of that were slim, he hadn’t seen John’s face while standing on the roof but he had heard his voice and that had been enough to make his chest hurt. 

Things would never be able to get back to normal again. It wasn’t that John was still angry at him - he had every right to be.

It was that now that Sherlock had lost John once he never wanted to lose him again. It was that every time he saw John he wanted to touch him, to assure himself that John was really there, that they were together again. 

He wanted to hold on to John tight and never let him go. 

Yet there was more. His body was betraying him – he wanted to hold, to kiss, to caress, to grip and there was nothing his mind could do to stop the thoughts. 

Even without this new-found obsession Sherlock’s return would have been complex enough but Sherlock’s…. feelings made everything much more complicated.

*

John was incredibly relieved when they finally reached 221B. 

“I’m going to drop into bed with all my clothes on and not move until tomorrow afternoon”, he announced when he followed Sherlock into their flat. 

“I’m sure you’re up to that challenge”, Sherlock deadpanned and removed his coat. The black eye was more prominent all of a sudden in the light of the lamps. 

John winced. “But first I’m going to take care of that bruise. Sherlock, you look like Rocky.”

“Who?”

“Who?!”

“That’s what I just said.” 

John half-groaned, half-chuckled. “Rocky, the Italian Stallion. A fictional boxer.”

“Ah, a pop culture reference, then.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock, as always”, John grinned as he fetched his kit. 

They hadn’t slept in the past 48 hours because a new serial robber had decided to target a supermarket chain, always killing several employees, and Sherlock and John had really wanted to catch that bastard. 

Victory was theirs, but taking down a 6 foot tall brick wall with anger management issues had been rather difficult, even after the Met had joined them. 

John felt his own bruises but discarded them. He’d had much worse and there were better things to focus on. 

Four weeks after Sherlock’s return they had finally solved their first huge case. 

Things were still a bit tense but John could feel his anger gradually dissipating. Sherlock was trying, he had to grant him that.

He had been grocery-shopping twice, had cooked dinner once (okay, Sherlock had been bored out of his mind after a small case solved and nothing else to do, but still, he could have just the same, well, put body parts in the fridge), was doing his best to listen to John respectively to ask John’s opinion on decisions like a new rug or a new coffee machine. 

Sherlock was being tidier, was going a few inches out of his own way – admittedly, it were small things but for Sherlock, it was rather incredible. 

John had made a slight habit of watching Sherlock closely, so he even noticed when Sherlock started to put John’s favourite knife next to the sink where John would put it after using it so he would never have to look for it.

They had had a few talks about the months after Sherlock’s death. His flatmate had been his usual, elusive self but from what John had been able to gather, it had been a grim time for Sherlock. 

Alone, without his resources and without anyone to help, ghosting around England, running after Moriarty’s minions…. John could fill in the blanks and it made him cringe. 

That was the past, though, John reassured himself. Now, he was there at Sherlock’s side again and nothing and no one in the world would make him leave. 

“John, it’s not even a bad bruise, it’s merely superficial.”

Sherlock was standing in the bathroom door, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Sherlock, we’ve been through this. Me, doctor. You, patient.” 

“And what about your bruises?” Sherlock eyed John’s torso with worry.

“Not in much need of attention.”

“Really.”

“Really”, John replied firmly and closed the distance between them, salve in hand. “Close your eyes.” 

Growling, the detective complied and John gently rubbed the paste on the dark skin. 

If he spent a little more time than strictly necessary touching Sherlock’s face, well, then that was that. 

*

A few days later found John at the hospital at work where, fortunately, he didn’t have to deal with Sherlock’s fan mail. 

Mostly, it truly was mail, e-mails that could be deleted but after they had busted the serial killer, their real-life mail box was bursting with letters of admiration. 

Which Sherlock never opened, of course, but he didn’t throw them out either, that was left to John.

On the other hand, he had been able to talk the detective into watching Rocky. All six movies. 

Sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa, listening to him pointing out the obvious shortcomings in the plot, drinking tea and just being close, John had felt happier than he had thought he would be capable of after the Fall. 

John had been tempted to fake a stretch and settle his arm behind Sherlock on the sofa. He had almost done it, too – before he had caught himself and chided himself for acting like a teenager. 

A knock on his office door brought him back to his present location where Sarah stepped through the door.

“Hi John.”

“Hi. What’s going on?”

“Oh, things are quiet right now and we wanted to welcome the new gynaecologist to the team. You should be there, too.”

“Sure thing”, John said while already rising to his feet and he followed Sarah to the staff cafeteria. 

Everyone had gathered, cheap champagne in hand. It appeared the newest addition to St. Bart’s was a cute red-head called Mary Morstan. 

“Hi, I’m John Watson. Welcome, you chose a great team to work with here.”

Mary smiled. “I had that impression, too. And it’s so great that you’re hosting a party for me!”

Conversation with Mary was nice, she was easy-going and open and painfully reminded John that there was a life beyond corpses and clues for some people. 

“It’s great talking to you, Mary, but I’ll leave you to get to know the rest of your new colleagues, alright?”

“Alright. But we could continue our chat over coffee sometime.”

John’s first impulse was to decline. His mind flashed to Sherlock and evenings spent on their sofa with Sherlock mocking Sylvester Stallone in the Rambo trilogy he had talked the detective into watching as well and to the blog entry he still hadn’t typed up, to murders and crimes and mutilated body-parts…..

“I’d love to”, John found himself saying instead. 

They exchanged numbers and John returned to the work waiting for him on his desk. 

*

Of course Sherlock spotted it the moment John walked through the door.

The detective looked up from his laptop – no, John’s laptop – and narrowed his eyes. 

“Something happened. Something unexpected.”

“Good evening to you, too, Sherlock.”

John removed his jacket while his flat mate was observing him. 

“You have a date.”

“How did you-?”

“Your shoulders are more relaxed than usually after you return form St. Bart’s, and you’re pronouncing your masculinity more, your step is more confident and slightly wider. I take it it’s with a woman?”

“The new doctor. Mary.”

“Which profession?”

“Gynaecologist.”

“Boring.”

“Then which profession do you think exciting?”

“Pathology.”

John laughed and went into the kitchen to turn on the boiler. 

“Well, she’s nice, easy to talk to.”

“You don’t need to justify your dating choices in front of me.”

“I know. You’re not actually my-“ John almost said partner but caught himself just in time, -“mother.” 

Interesting Freudian slip, he noted. He should look into that. Just like he should look into the dreams featuring Sherlock. Or his thoughts about Sherlock’s hip bones. 

River in Egypt, river in Egypt, a voice was saying inside his head which he ignored. 

Sherlock was considering him, face blank. 

When John was beginning to feel uncomfortable under Sherlock’s gaze, he returned to the kitchen to fill up the kettle. 

“Why are you using my laptop anyway? No, wait, I can get this: it was closer?”

Sherlock gave him a brief smile after which he returned to the screen. 

*

Friday came and John found himself preparing for a date. An actual date. That hadn’t happened since… that one girl had left him because of Sherlock. 

Right, better think of something else then….

John contemplated his wardrobe, pulled out two jumpers and considered them for half a minute before emerging from his room. 

“Sherlock, this one or that one?” he asked. 

Sherlock didn’t look up from the book he was reading. 

“If both options are jumpers, put them back and chose a shirt instead.”

John stood in his door-frame for a moment and then obliged and returned the jumpers to his wardrobe. 

“Any preferences, Sherlock?”

A pause. 

“The dark blue one, it brings out your eyes.”

John smiled as he pulled the shirt out. That Sherlock would notice such things… then again, he was the most perceptive man John knew and undoubtedly had a better taste in clothing than John. 

John put it on. It was well-worn by now – it had been Sherlock’s Christmas present one and a half years ago and had quickly become John’s favourite shirt. 

“Thank you, it’s really better than the jumpers.”

“That’s why I gave it to you.”

Was it his imagination or was Sherlock tense? 

He was probably just annoyed by the fans jamming his mail account, John reasoned and picked up his coat. 

“I’m off then, enjoy the fan mail.”

Sherlock shot him a glare from behind the book and John quickly left the flat. 

He was meeting Mary at a restaurant, after which they’d go to the cinema. Dinner and a movie. A classic. 

At least John wouldn’t run the risk of battling an Asian smuggling ring this time. 

*

Sherlock had been staring at the same page for the past three minutes without taking in its content. 

John was on a date. With a woman named Marry. 

The thought blocked out everything else, occupied every neuron in Sherlock’s brain as he ran scenarios. 

The chances of John making a fool of himself were slim, he was likeable and women took to him easily. The string of women one and a half years ago had provided ample proof. 

John wouldn’t take Mary back to their flat and Sherlock doubted the gynaecologist would invite John back to her place on the first date. 

There was a high probability of kissing, though. 

Sherlock found it painful to imagine it. He needed a diversion. 

Yes, it was selfish. But everyone always accused him of being selfish, Mycroft above all people, so that was nothing new. 

Sherlock picked up his mobile and texted Lestrade. 

_I’m bored. Give me a case. – SH_

A few minutes later, his mobile beeped. 

_Of course, since you asked so nicely._

Sherlock bit his lip. 

_Anything will do. Please. – SH_

_You really must be bored… Alright, I might have something slightly interesting. I’ll email you the details. Body is at Bart’s._

Sherlock spent the next six and a half minutes hitting the re-load button on the page of his inbox until finally, Lestrade’s email appeared.


	5. The Copycat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock resorts to his scheming abilities to keep John away from Mary. Thanks to a Jack The Ripper copycat serial killer, it just got easier.

John and Mary were finishing desert and talking about silly things their patients had done or said when John’s phone beeped. 

He instinctively reached for it but stopped half-way. He had spent a great deal of the dinner talking about Sherlock. He should really stop thinking about him.

“It’s probably my flat mate”, he waved it off and Mary made to finish her story. 

Another beep. 

“Sounds urgent,” Marry said. 

John produced his mobile from his coat.

_Lestrade called. We have a case. – SH_

_Which means you have to come. – SH_

John rolled his eyes. “One second,” he said to Molly while he replied.

_Sherlock, I’m on a date. Can’t you handle it yourself? – JW_

_I need you. Meet me in the morgue. – SH_

John closed his eyes. “I need you” appeared on his eyelids, burnt into them, glowing bright.

“Did something happen?” Mary looked concerned. 

“I’m really sorry, but I have to cancel the movie… We have a case.”

“What a pity… But it’s not your fault. That movie will run for another three weeks, probably.”

“Thank you. I’ll get the check.”

“Thank you”, Mary smiled at him as he signaled the waiter. 

* 

John found Sherlock inspecting the body of a teenager. 

“Alright, Sherlock, what have we got?”

Sherlock looked up and smiled at him and for the sake of his sanity John rather hoped the smile was directed at his presence and not at the fact that there had been a murder.

“Male, 16 years old. The Met haven’t been able to identify him. Cause of death was a severed carotid artery though there are abdominal wounds congruent with a hunting knife.”

John stepped closer. “Same blade used for the throat?”

Sherlock nodded and moved down the body. 

“Ideas?”

“Several. What do you see?”

John leaned in closer. The boy was pretty, above average height, slender and covered in bruises. He inspected the wounds. 

“The murderer first stabbed him, then cut his throat. The bruises are older than that, but they could still be related. Where was he found?”

“Whitechapel.”

John took a closer look at the wrists. The victim had worn handcuffs quite often. 

An unidentified, young, pretty boy the police hadn’t been able to ID, found murdered in Whitechapel. Bruises on the wrists. Throat slit, stabbed in the abdomen. 

“Was he a prostitute?” 

Sherlock paused and grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

*

How John ended up chasing tarts across Whitechapel later that night was beyond him. 

They had informed Lestrade of their findings and then, quite inexplicably, Sherlock had volunteered to investigate. 

What the bloody hell was so fascinating about a murdered prostitute? Even if it looked a lot like a Jack the Ripper copycat?

Three prostitutes (which Sherlock had actually paid to talk) and several other clues later, they finally returned to Baker Street. 

John slumped down on the sofa while Sherlock was still hanging his coat. 

“Well, what a productive evening”, John commented. 

One look sufficed and both he and Sherlock were laughing uncontrollably. 

*

Saturday night John decided to make amends to Mary. They actually reached the cinema and actually saw the entire movie this time. 

John couldn’t believe his luck. 

They shared a cab and drove Mary home first. When the car stopped, Mary handed over her share of the fee and turned to John. 

“I had a very nice time, thank you”, she said and smiled. 

“Me too. We should do this again?”

“Definitely!” 

Her eyes darted to his lips and John realized what was about to happen. He leaned forward- 

Beep. 

Bollocks. 

Marry drew back, smiled and opened the cab door. “I’ll call you”, she said and left. 

John groaned and produced his phone which – surprise, surprise – showed he had received a text from Sherlock. 

_They found a second body. – SH_

Another beep and Sherlock texted him the address. John tapped the window and the cabbie changed direction. 

*

It was two in the morning when they eventually found another prostitute who could identify their victim. For 30 Pounds.

Well, as long as Sherlock was paying, John wouldn’t complain. 

“Yeah, I knew him. He went by the name of Chad.”

“What do you know about him?”

Aaron shrugged. “Runaway, just like most of us. Did have a few regulars.”

“Who?”

“Of course, I’ll give you their names and health insurance number”, Aaron snorted, shaking his head. “How the bloody fuck should I know?”

“Could you point them out if you saw them?” John facilitated. 

“Probably. But you’re too late now. His regulars won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“So we’ll come back tomorrow and you show us Chad’s regulars?”

“For the right amount of cash.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who agreed and they set up a meeting. When they turned, Aaron spoke again. 

“You know, I also do couples. I’m sure there’s more money where that came from.”

Sherlock and John faced the prostitute again who was seductively nibbling the 30 pounds from earlier. 

“What are you suggesting?” Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. 

John couldn’t stifle a snigger. 

“Thanks for the offer, Aaron, but we’re not interested.”

He basically manhandled Sherlock back around and they walked off. 

“Oh, he was offering a threesome” Sherlock sighed next to him. 

“Brilliant deduction, detective, no one would have figured that one out…”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, not at all!” John said but his laughter sort of killed the intended effect. 

Sherlock glared.

* 

By the end of the following week, Sherlock and John had followed up on every regular Aaron was able to identify and every suspect had to be released due to lack of evidence.

Sherlock was becoming more and more frustrated. They needed more data. Another body, preferably. 

* 

He got his wish on Friday night. John was out with Mary again and Sherlock revelled in the pleasure of pulling John out of his date. 

Sherlock genuinely hated Mary now – one would think that any self-respecting woman would terminate any contact with a man who left their first two dates for any reason that didn’t involve a personal crisis of someone close to him. 

But no – Mary was understanding and nice about it, as John so often liked to point out. 

Sherlock needed to find a way to change that. 

However, the third body had priority at the moment. 

Lestrade was looming over them expectantly as they examined the body. When John inspected the abdominal wounds more closely, his expression told Sherlock everything. 

Sherlock stood up. 

“And?” prompted Lestrade. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a Jack the Ripper copycat. Either we are dealing with a true psychopath who loves to kill or the victims are connected in a way yet unknown. In either case we’re dealing with someone who knows his way around London, who has surgical knowledge and sufficient skill to actually extricate organs with a hunting knife.”

Lestrade made an exasperated noise. “You enjoy turning my press conferences in big events, don’t you?”

Sherlock smirked. Another body meant they would contact Aaron again. Perfect.

*

Three nights of investigation passed with several promising clues but no definite lead. John and Sherlock had chased down several suspects but Lestrade always had to set them free eventually. 

They did end one or two marriages in the process, though. 

Monday found a rather tired John returning to work and Sherlock implemented his plan. 

Predictably, when his flat mate returned that evening, he was fuming. 

“You’re angry”, Sherlock stated, expression blank. 

“Oh, how could you tell?”

“Your neck is tense, your jaw clenched and-“

“I was being rhetorical.” 

Sherlock bit his lip to prevent the smile that was threatening to escape. 

He would have loved to see it. Aaron in the hospital in need of treatment, asking for John, throwing a tantrum that everyone would witness. The rumour mill would supply Mary with the news before lunch, which she’d spend questioning John about how he came to know a male prostitute. 

Which of course had led to John explaining about the case and the investigation. 

Mary had realized that settling down, having kids and leading a comfortable life weren’t options that John considered. 

Hence, she broke it off. 

Hence, John’s bad mood. 

Women might not be Sherlock’s area of expertise but he knew enough about people to pull the right strings. 

* 

John was still grumpy when he threw himself onto his bed. 

It wasn’t that Mary had broken up with him. He wasn’t as beat up about it as he’d hoped he would be. 

Sherlock had been right. Mary was boring. But she was also normal and when with her, John had almost felt normal. 

Yes, alright. He knew he didn’t want normal. He thought he needed to want normal, if that made any sense.

“I don’t know what your problem is, mate”, Aaron’s voice was ringing in his ears. “Just man up and bugger him already!” 

“What? Who?” John had known too well what the kid was implying. 

“That detective you’re always following around. Believe me, he’d like it”, he winked.

John had wanted to explain that Aaron had got it wrong, that Sherlock had, in fact, no interest in such matters and that Sherlock had actually told John the very day they had met that he considered himself married to his work. 

John knew his chances. He knew he’d risk their still-fragile friendship if he made a move. And he couldn’t lose Sherlock again, and if that meant he’d have to suffer a bit, well, he could live with that, as long as Sherlock was by his side. 

John punched his pillow in frustration. 

*

Thankfully, the week was so busy that John hardly had any time to think about his feelings for the detective. 

Sherlock had deduced that they were dealing with a psychopath with a certain affliction towards young, lean, dark-haired prostitutes. 

It took the consulting detective half an hour to convince Lestrade to set up a trap and John didn’t even want to know how much he paid Aaron to play the bait. 

So every night of the week, after a long day at the clinic where he was successfully avoiding Mary, John and Sherlock would shadow Aaron in Whitechapel, watch him get into cars, watch him get out of them alive and resume their shadowing. 

The killer struck on Saturday. Aaron’s scream was their sign and they stormed towards the car.

The killer panicked and ran, John at his heels while Sherlock opened the car door and found a bleeding Aaron on the passenger seat. 

John threw himself at the killer and tore him down, anticipated the knife, wrestled the man to the ground. 

Or tried to. The man was strong and taller than John, he escaped and John was after him again. 

John felt blood trickle down his flank and saw his blood on the killer’s knife. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins and with a move he had learned in Afghanistan, he used the man’s momentum to turn him around, twist the arm with the knife on his back and a strong kick took the feet out from under him. 

The killer was immobilized, knife digging into his back just enough to hurt and threaten. 

“Dr Watson, you can stand up, we have several guns aimed at the suspect.”

John complied and with a gratifying click, Lestrade put his handcuffs on the man. 

When John reached where they had abandoned the car, Aaron was being wheeled off to an ambulance. 

“How is he?”

“Just one wound. They think he’ll survive”, Sherlock supplied. Then his eyes fell onto the wound. 

“John, you’re hurt!”

“Now who is stating the obvious?” John chuckled. Adrenaline was a fine thing. 

“I’ll get a medic, don’t move”, Sherlock said, put his hand on John’s shoulder and whipped around.

The medics patched John up and administered pain medication which blurred everything a bit but John definitely remembered Sherlock at his side while he was receiving stitches.


	6. The Boy In The Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't stop thinking about Sherlock, so he decides to distract himself.... much to Sherlock's dismay. It's a good thing that Mrs Hudson is brilliant.  
> Yet just as a particular femme fatale threatens to take John away, the body of an ambassador's son is found hanging from a tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for a lot of UST and major cockblocking from Sherlock :)
> 
> The title as well as the Nestor Olivos case are inspired by the TV show Bones, season 1, episode 3. 
> 
> For people like me who have no medical training: hyoid = the lingual bone

John was released the next day, the doctors having wanted to keep him overnight for observation. 

“Sherlock?” John considered for a moment that he might be hallucinating his flat mate standing in the hospital lobby but he knew he hadn’t received that many drugs.

“You look surprised.”

“I hadn’t thought you’d pick me up from the hospital.”

“You have a knife wound. I didn’t want you passing out on your way to Baker Street.”

Sherlock kept his face blank, his voice nonchalant, yet John caught a glimpse of real worry in the man’s blue eyes and found himself smiling fondly. 

“You’re worried about me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“I was merely surprised.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but whatever he had wanted to say had obviously been stopped before he was able to articulate it. 

“Come on,” the detective said instead and lead the way to a cab. 

“Do you need help with the stairs?” Sherlock asked when they reached 221B. 

“No, I’m fine.”

John climbed the steps and even made it to the last few before his bad leg gave out and he crashed into the wall. 

Sherlock’s arms were there to support him the next moment. 

“I’m fine”, John said automatically. 

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly stated his thoughts on the matter. 

“Do you want to go to your room? Or to the sofa?” Sherlock asked, his voice unusually close because of their position. 

“Erm”, John began, reining in his thoughts - he had caught sight of Sherlock’s lips when he looked up. “Sofa’s fine.”

“Alright.” 

With Sherlock’s help, John managed to avoid falling over until he was in front of the sofa. He lowered himself carefully, only too aware of Sherlock’s supporting arm on his back and his other hand on his shoulder. 

John looked up when he was nearly seated to tell his flat mate he could let go now, but his eyes locked with Sherlock’s and the words stuck in his throat. 

They held the gaze for too long, they both knew it. What was Sherlock looking at? Why was he looking? Was he deducing something? Had he zoned out?

John swallowed. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his throat, which John cleared audibly. 

“Erm, you can let go now. Thanks, though.”

Sherlock drew back, straightened and looked as if nothing conspicuous had happened. 

“Cuppa?” 

“Hell, yes.”

*

Whatever moment they had shared, Sherlock seemed not to have noticed. John didn’t press the matter either, yet his mind kept replaying it over and over in his head. 

He had to put an end to this… whatever this was. His developing feelings for Sherlock? That was complete bollocks, the feelings had already developed. Friendship feelings. Feelings that had provided the energy and the motivation to spend months trying to clear Sherlock’s name, trying to resurrect him. 

But ever since Sherlock’s return, these feelings threatened to turn into something much more. Bloody hell, who was he kidding. John was half-way gone already. 

And had it been any other man and not Sherlock, John wouldn’t have panicked. He’d have gathered his courage and acted. 

But this was Sherlock, Mr Married-to-his-work, who had no interest in such things. Bloody hell, the man didn’t even notice when John left for a walk most of the time!

So John decided to distract himself. 

*

That night he went out to the pub with Greg. They had fun and decided, since they were both desirable bachelors (well, one bachelor and one divorcee), to flirt with a group of women at the bar. 

The money John spent on the many (many) shots was worth it – he got a telephone number out of the evening. And a hangover. 

Two days later, he went out with Jenny, an assistant at an accounting firm. 

It would have been a great evening – if Sherlock hadn’t called, honest to God called in person, to tell John the address where their newest body was found. 

*

So John tried his luck again. Jenny had been angry beyond belief that he had left and refused to answer his messages from then on.

He probably deserved that, anyway. 

Diana was a nurse at the hospital. They had shared a laugh when one of her patients vomited all over both of them and decided to get coffee together. 

Coffee had gone amicably, so the date the following Friday had been mutually agreed on. 

Thankfully, Sherlock and John wrapped up their case the night before. 

“Perfect timing”, John sighed as he opened his laptop to type up the case. 

“Why?” Sherlock asked from the kitchen. 

“It’s just – I have a date tomorrow and well, usually our cases tend to get in the way.”

“A date? With Jenny?”

John cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed. “Erm, no.”

His flat mate didn’t question him any further. 

*

Sherlock spent ten whole minutes weighing the pros and cons of his plan. 

On the one hand, following John to his date might cause disruption. The tension between John and him had only been completely gone for a few weeks and he didn’t need it to resurface quite so soon. 

However, Sherlock had no intention of being caught. All he wanted was one look at John’s date to assess the chances of her ending the relationship before it progressed into something physical.

So Sherlock leapt to his feet and took a cab to the restaurant John had mentioned they’d be visiting. 

He needn’t have worried. One look at Diana revealed a dog-loving, overly-emotional, completely boring woman whose idea of fun was to cultivate vegetables in her garden. Soon, the two would realize their incompatibility and move on. 

Smiling, Sherlock headed back to his experiments.

*

A week and one tedious domestic murder later, Sherlock returned from the morgue with pieces of human skin, only to find John hurrying about the flat.

Several clothes lay discarded on the sofa and John was trying on the fifth – no, sixth – item of the night. 

“Who is the woman you are so eager to please?” Sherlock called into the bathroom, banning every emotion from his tone. 

“Huh?” John emerged from the bathroom in only a pair of jeans. 

Sherlock’s mouth went dry.

John had never been shirtless in his company. Sherlock had never seen the wound in his shoulder. His eyes roamed the skin, the tight muscles underneath it, the hint of hair above John’s belt buckle- 

He was staring. John would notice.

“I was wondering who you were meeting that warranted such a fuss.”

“Oh, erm, Lucy. She’s a lawyer and absolutely incredible, I met her in the ER, she accompanied her associate there, he’d broken an arm while looking for a file.”

Sherlock’s gaze wandered from John’s agitated body to the clothes strewn across the sofa. 

“Well, I’m having trouble with the clothes. What to wear.”

It clicked. “She was the one to ask you out.”

“How did you- oh, forget I asked.”

“You wouldn’t be so conscious of your attire in one of the restaurants you usually choose for a date, hence you didn’t choose it. She chose it because she also asked you out, not the other way around. Being a successful lawyer she would have chosen an exquisite restaurant. You feel a bit intimidated, which explains the fact that there are only shirts and no jumpers on the sofa. You want to look manly.”

John stared at him. “Amazing.”

A familiar warmth spread through Sherlock’s chest at the praise. It had been a while since John had voiced his appreciation. 

Still, as much as Sherlock loathed the thought, he should give John advice – everything else would arouse suspicion.

“Wear the red shirt. I guess that woman likes aggressive.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Alright.”

He made a line for the shirt behind Sherlock, who reached for it and handed it to John. Their fingers brushed accidentally. 

*

John was flirting outrageously. Sherlock had been right – Lucy liked aggressive. 

They didn’t talk much substance during dinner, mostly John mused about the unidentifiable nature of the food that arrived in portion sizes much too small and Lucy explained why the cook had combined leeks with apple sauce. 

They did flirt, though. They flirted so much that when Lucy’s car came – yes, her own car – John wasn’t surprised to have a lap full of lawyer within seconds. 

The kisses were hard and rough and Lucy’s hands crawled their way beneath his shirt. 

John wondered how long he would be allowed to revel in the experience before his mobile would beep. 

No, it wouldn’t. Sherlock had received his collection of skin samples and was immersed in another disgusting experiment, no chance he’d answer Lestrade now.

At some point, John realized he should probably focus on the woman currently straddling his hips instead of thinking of his flat mate. 

“I’ve wanted to do this all night”, Lucy breathed against his ear. 

John opened his eyes to a mischievous smile. 

“What-?” he began but Lucy’s hands on his zipper cut him off. “Jesus!”

Lucy slid back, knelt and lowered her head. 

“Here?! Lucy, wait, the driver-“

“-doesn’t see or hear anything. And it’s another fifteen minutes before we reach my apartment.” 

With another smirk, Lucy pulled John’s cock out and swallowed him in one go. 

Beep. 

Damn. John reached for his phone but Lucy batted his hand away and sucked hard. 

She was right. Sherlock could text all he wanted. John was receiving his first blow-job in….. a very long time. 

Beep. 

No, John tried to telepathically tell his flat mate. I’m not looking at my phone. 

Just then, it started ringing. 

John groaned and put his hand on Lucy’s head. 

“Wait, Lucy, that really sounds urgent.”

She pulled off with an obscene pop. “What?”

“It’s probably another case-“

“Or, right, that Holmes bloke.”

As it became clear that she wouldn’t bite his head off, John reached for his mobile. 

The caller ID read “Sherlock”. As expected.

“Hello?”

A brief pause on the other end. Bloody hell, John’s voice was giving him away. Sherlock knew him too well. 

“Am I interrupting?”

“Erm…”

“Not that I care, I just find it interesting how fast Mrs Successful Lawyer is willing to put out.”

“Sherlock, what’s happened?”

“A case. I’ll text you the address.”

Before John had a chance to reply, Sherlock had hung up. 

He turned to Lucy, who was still kneeling between his legs. Slightly embarrassed, John noticed he was still half naked. 

“I’m sorry, we have a new case.”

Lucy answered with a frustrated groan. “What a pity. Can I drop you anywhere?”

Beep. 

John checked and showed her the address. 

*

One look at John proved Sherlock’s theory. He had interrupted something. 

That meant Lucy was truly as aggressive as he’d feared. That woman meant trouble. 

Sherlock was sure that if he tried hard enough, he would be able to come up with a logical explanation as to why the thought of some overzealous woman touching John enraged him as much as it did. 

On the other hand, John wasn’t looking for what Lucy was offering. Perhaps this time Sherlock didn’t need to intervene?

*

Sherlock growled at the smiley face on the wall. 

John might not be looking for something casual, but he was in no way declining what Lucy was practically throwing at him. 

He was out with her right now. Dinner, John had said. Again.

Judging by the time he had left, the restaurant they had selected, the duration of the meal and that woman’s wanton attitude, Sherlock reasoned they would have reached dessert by now

There was still time. 

The knock startled him. 

“Sherlock, dear, would you like a cuppa? I bought a new kind of tea.”

He turned and saw Mrs Hudson in the doorway, a cup in hand. 

“Just leave the tea, I’m sure John will drink it.”

“What makes you-“

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said and even managed a small, fond smile. “You only ask if we want tea if you bought a kind that displeases you. So just leave the tea.”

The lady chuckled. “I should have known I couldn’t fool you.” Then, her eyes narrowed. “Is everything alright?”

What had he done? What had she seen?

“Obviously.”

“No, Sherlock, I’ve known you far too long. You’ve worn that same expression after John had been hurt in that Jack the Ripper case.”

Sherlock deemed silence his best defence. 

“Is John alright?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s feeling just fine.”

“Where is he?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

Sherlock shut his mouth and breathed out through his nose. He was not going to complain to his landlady about John’s affiliation with a sex-crazed lawyer. 

But to his horror, the worry slipped from Mrs Hudson’s eyes and was replaced by something soft – empathy. 

“He’s on a date, isn’t he?” She shook her head. “You boys are idiots.”

“We are hardly boys, Mrs Hudson, and I can assure you that idiot is quite the wrong term for both John and me.”

“Oh, don’t try to be smart, Sherlock, you know what I mean.”

He truly didn’t, which went unnoticed by the landlady. 

“Do you want my help?”

“With what? I doubt you have any experience handling human skin samples.”

She grimaced. “Not with your ghastly experiments! With John!”

“He manages just fine on his own.”

Mrs Hudson sighed, exasperated. Then her tone became conspiratorial without warning. 

“Look now, Sherlock. I’m not at all feeling well. I have a bad headache and I feel slightly dizzy – no, I even fainted here after I brought you the tea!” Without waiting for a reaction, she sank against the door and slid down, the cup slipping from her grasp and before Sherlock could catch either the lady or the piece of china, both hit the floor, the latter with a shattering noise. 

What was Mrs Hudson doing? What was the point of this?

“See, now you want to take me to a hospital, but I won’t let you. I would rather have John look me over to make sure I’m not seriously ill, you say he’s out but I urge you to call him.”

She looked at him pointedly. 

Sherlock blinked. John would leave Lucy at the table and rush to Baker Street. 

“Mrs Hudson, you are brilliant.”

*

Somewhere in this universe, someone had a grand master plan and this plan didn’t involve John pulling anyone. Ever. 

He was five seconds away from calling Mycroft to ask whether he knew of a conspiracy that wanted to keep John away from women. 

As much as he wanted to, however, he couldn’t be angry. It was Mrs Hudson. She could have been really hurt.

But it wasn’t just this incident, was it? Every time John went out with Lucy over the next weeks, something happened. A body. A clue. A lead. Another body. Once, Sherlock only called him back to the flat so that John would hold skin samples and Sherlock’s hands were unavailable since he had to apply some sort of chemical cocktail.

Truth be told, John had seen it coming. 

“I’m not going to call you anymore,” Lucy said. “Our schedules are simply not compatible.”

So that was the end of her.

Then, when John had ended up at the ballet with Holly from NHS, Mycroft had been there as well and John had only left Holly alone with Mycroft for five minutes after the show to use the lavatory. Upon his return, his date wanted to head to bed all of a sudden. 

She never called him again. 

Oh, and the time he took Vivienne, the oboist, out to the cinema, Sherlock showed up during intermission. 

“John, we have a case.”

“And you couldn’t have texted?”

“You said you were going to the cinema. There’s no reception in the cinema hall, I’m sure that information is stored somewhere in your brain.”

John sighed and told Vivienne, once she returned from the lady’s room, that he had to leave. 

And of course there had to be a suicide of international and diplomatic importance that Mycroft put on their table the following day. 

Like he said, somewhere, someone had it in for him.

*

Mycroft had actually gone to the hospital to fetch John, who was developing wild theories as to why the case they apparently had was so important. 

Back at the apartment, John found Lestrade already there with Sherlock. 

The reason behind all the fuss seemed to be that the corpse had belonged to the son of the Venezuelan ambassador. Nestor Olivos had spent ten to fourteen days hanging from a tree on the private school’s grounds before he had been found. Scotland Yard had identified him via the cochlear implant which came with a serial number. 

The school’s headmaster and the chief of security were adamant that it was suicide. 

“But the ambassador doesn’t think this likely. This is a delicate case, Sherlock, we cannot risk upsetting the Venezuelans.”

Sherlock sighed at his brother and picked up the file, his disdain for politics blatantly visible.

John, meanwhile, threw every plan of asking the new secretary Maggie out for drinks later that week out of the window. 

“His hyoid bone was broken.”

John glanced at Sherlock. “But he’s a teenager, adolescent hyoids are flexible, basically unbreakable.”

“Obviously.”

“So?” Lestrade interjected. 

“I need the maggots you found in the body.”

“Obviously”, the DI said and left. 

*

The next day, John returned from Tesco’s to Sherlock conducting experiments on maggots that had been feeding on dead teenager. 

On the kitchen table.

“People eat there, you know,” he pointed out. 

“Only because the thought of bugs that digest decomposing human flesh is more appalling than the thought of what kind of bacteria live on the bottom of those grocery bags doesn’t render cleaning the table any less effective.”

John opened his mouth to reply but chose to groan in frustration instead. 

He busied himself with lunch and let his thoughts wander. His plan to get involved with a woman and get over his fantasies of Sherlock had been thwarted and not only that. John found himself staring – at the small patch of skin exposed when the collar of Sherlock’s shirt would shift, at his flatmate’s bare chest when the latter spent half the day in pyjama bottoms and his bathrobe. 

Sometimes, John caught Sherlock considering him with a strange look on his face, though until now, he had failed to figure out what it meant. Sherlock never said anything after John caught him looking, so it couldn’t be an immediate observation. 

Sherlock Holmes remained a mystery. 

“Eureka!” the detective shouted, sounding thrilled. 

John glanced up from the sauce he was stirring and raised his eyebrows in question. 

“Ketamine. A heavy dose. Nestor ingested it prior to his death.”

“Being unconscious would make hanging him from a tree a lot easier.”

Sherlock’s eyes were sparkling. “Exactly. It also explains the hyoid.”

“How?”

“High dose of ketamine – adding the choking leads to regurgitation, the stomach acids are trapped in his throat, weakening the hyoid. In that state, the boy’s weight would have sufficed to break the lingual bone.”

“Brilliant!”

Sherlock beamed, there was no other word for it. They shared a smile that left John breathless but thankfully, it was Sherlock who broke away to call Lestrade. 

*

Two days later Sherlock pulled him out of another date. 

John had asked Maggie for drinks in one last, desperate attempt to escape the universe’s ploy, but an hour into the evening there was a tall consulting detective at their table. 

“We have investigating to do, John”, he said and left the bar, but not before he looked Maggie up and down. 

“Was that Sherlock Holmes?”

John nodded, resigned to his fate. “We have a case. I have to go, I’m sorry.”

*

They ended up driving to the private school, searching Camden Destry’s room. She and another friend of Nestor’s, Tucker Pattinson, had been the last to see the boy alive. 

“Why are we searching her room again? And how can we be sure she isn’t coming back within the next five seconds?”

“She’s out with her parents. Stop worrying. She is suspicious.”

John found an unmarked DVD hidden behind a row of books. They put it into the girl’s DVD player and were met with a homemade sex tape. Of Camden and Nestor. 

“Does that help us in any way?” John asked but Sherlock was already out of the room. 

When John finally caught up with the detective after retrieving the DVD, he found him in another room a few corridors away. 

“Whose room is this?”

“Tucker Pattinson’s.”

“Why?”

Sherlock looked up from where he was searching Tucker’s video games and rolled his eyes. 

“If it’s so obvious, care to explain.”

Sherlock straightened and sighed. “Camden and Tucker share a secret, their body language was screaming it loudly enough if you chose to listen. If there’s one sex tape, there could be another.”

“Of whom?”

Sherlock produced a similarly unmarked DVD from between game cases and smirked.

*

At least Sherlock had the decency to only show off to Lestrade and not in front of the Destrys. 

“Mrs Destry and her daughter aren’t on good terms, even you must have noticed. She also hasn’t slept with her husband for three or four years, though she is a woman who could be called desirable if one were so inclined.”

“Yes, she’s attractive, what’s that got to do with Nestor Olivos?” Lestrade was exasperated and John couldn’t blame him. Sherlock was immensely satisfied with himself which always meant him being especially insufferable. 

“Everything, Lestrade, of course. She seduced Tucker Pattinson, her daughter’s boyfriend at the time. He was clever, though, he taped one encounter and used it to blackmail Mrs Destry. He probably left a copy of it on his computer and Camden, noisy girlfriend of his, went through his files and discovered it. She was furious until she came up with a plan to make some extra cash: seduce Nestor Olivos, the deaf outsider who went to church every Sunday and got mocked on a regular basis. As a hormone-dominated teenager, Nestor fell for her advances; she and Tucker set up the camera and set out to blackmail Nestor with the video.”

“So why kill him?”

“Because Nestor threatened to go to the headmaster. Obviously.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a brief moment. “So you’re saying these kids killed a deaf bloke because he wanted to tell on them for trying to blackmail him. Makes me really glad I never had any of my own.”

With a groan, the DI left the empty classroom to make the arrests. 

*

Mycroft was so pleased with their work that he actually sent a car that would take them the long way back to Baker Street. 

“Too bad I’m not allowed to write about it on my blog,” John mused when they entered their flat. “The discussions about teenage violence would be amazing.”

Sherlock snorted. “Children have always been murderers. There’s nothing scandalous about it.”

“So you’d call this boring?”

“Yes.”

“Only you, Sherlock”, John smiled when suddenly, his mobile went off. His flatmate narrowed his eyes at the surprised expression on John’s face. 

“Hello Maggie,” he said and then the most curious thing happened. Sherlock’s face fell for a split second. “I thought I wouldn’t be hearing from you, with me running off on our first date and everything.”

Sherlock had composed himself but the tension in his shoulders remained. Did the thought of John going out with Maggie bother him? Why should it? Except…. No, it couldn’t be. 

On the other end of the line, Maggie was understanding. Solving crime was important, working with Sherlock was important. Yet she wanted to give it a second chance. 

“How does tomorrow night sound? Dinner” 

“Tomorrow? Dinner?” 

Was he imagining things or had Sherlock’s hand balled into a fist upon hearing the words? 

“John, are you still there?”

“Sorry, Maggie, I am. But I’m afraid I can’t do tomorrow. I already have plans.”

“A pity. Why don’t you call me and we can agree on another time?”

“Alright.”

“Bye!” Maggie hung up and John put the mobile down. 

“You don’t have plans tomorrow”, Sherlock spoke up, clearly intrigued, and took a few steps in John’s direction. 

He swallowed. Sherlock was unusually close and John’s own feet carried him a few steps closer on their own volition. “No, I don’t.”

Their eyes met. Mere inches apart, John couldn’t help his eyes darting to Sherlock’s lips, half-parted. When his eyes found his flatmate’s again, his pupils were dilated slightly more than before. 

Was Sherlock…? No, that would be inconceivable. 

 

The detective, however, seemed as frozen as John. For minutes, the moment stretched between them and all it would take John was lean in a bit and he could capture Sherlock’s lips between his own. 

If he read the signs wrong, the results would be catastrophic. 

John couldn’t risk it. He remained still. 

After what was the most charged silence John had experienced in his life, Sherlock cleared his throat, breaking eye contact. 

“Good. She’d have bored you after the third date anyway.”

John chuckled lightly and Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again. 

Then, he turned around and headed into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

And John had no idea what to think about any of it. 

 

END OF PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read this to the end - every hit, every kudo and every comment makes me very happy :)
> 
> "Don't Be Dead part II - The Gravedigger" will be posted in a few days... 10,000 words of kidnapping, angst, hurt and BAMF!John. Oh yeah :)


End file.
